


Currents

by goatsongs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Slice of Life, Therapy, Welcome To Self-Indulgence, also enjolras go to therapy challenge, and happiness, expect literally nothing else, grantaire is an alcoholic in pretty much every fic i've ever read, oh yes grantaire is trans, so i am giving him what he deserves, so it's pretty easy, who do u think i am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27284917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatsongs/pseuds/goatsongs
Summary: Life and love intertwine and disentangle in so many strange ways.After a disastrous night at the Musain, Grantaire and Enjolras must both reckon with their shortcomings. Growing, healing and becoming better people is a horizon one must struggle greatly before reaching it, and perhaps it is time the two climb their own way up that barricade.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Joly, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I might do some rambling in the end notes, but I'm writing this fic as a self-redemption. Like Enjolras and Grantaire in this fic, I am also twenty something and trying to heal and grow. It's hard. 
> 
> If you are incredible enough to listen to music while reading, Currents by Tame Impala is the album for this fic.

Grantaire watched the smoke swirl its way slowly toward the open window as he took another drag from his cigarette. The room was now mostly bare of his possessions, which he had stuffed in several black bin bags. In one cardboard box, propped against the door to hold it open, were some of his paintings, left untouched and forgotten. He hadn’t painted in months. Next to him was the empty can of beer he had downed to chase away the pounding headache. His face was curled in slight disgust. He wished he hadn’t lit that cigarette, because he knew he would have to finish it, and the nausea was growing stronger by the minute. He listened to the familiar clack of brogues against the plastic tiles of the student apartment and sighed heavily, ending in a cough that indicated his lungs were having a hard time. As much as he hated himself for doing it, he quickly stubbed out the cigarette. Enjolras was always the kind of person to pointedly make it known that he didn’t like smoking, usually by stepping away slightly and pursing his lips whenever Grantaire so much as pulled out a pack.  
  
“Hey.” Enjolras’ voice was quiet as it floated in. Grantaire didn’t want to raise his head and give his heart a reason to keep pounding in his ears, but he did. Enjolras was politely standing right outside his dorm room door, using both his hands to lean against the door frame slightly. He was wearing sober grey trousers, and a green button up, and visible in the middle of his eyebrows was a small, serious frown. Grantaire took a deep breath.  
  
“Young, blonde, fair-skinned. Why, a messenger God, here to deliver his divine message to the likes of me. What an unexpected surprise, oh Hermes, oh Busy One, Bringer of Luck, Giver of Joy, Conductor of Dreams…” Grantaire began, his voice a complete monotone. Enjolras’ frown deepened, and Grantaire felt sick with the soft, bitter satisfaction that came with managing to get a rise out of the man. It never felt truly good when he didn’t have a good few beers in his system, and it was getting disappointingly easy as of late.  
  
Enjolras stepped into the room, and Grantaire interrupted his string of epithets.  
  
“Hermes wasn’t even depicted as young or blonde, in Ancient Greece.” Enjolras said. Grantaire let out a single laugh.  
  
“Look at who’s been Googling the Greek Pantheon. Shouldn’t you be wasting your time studying… taxes? Or whatever it is you study?”  
  
“Law and Social Policy.” Enjolras replied, his jaw tightening. Grantaire smiled an unhappy smile.  
  
“Yeah. Right. What’s up, Enjolras? Why are you gracing me with your presence on this fine… Thursday?” Said Grantaire, turning toward the open window. It hurt to look at Enjolras. His mind kept going back to the night before.  
  
“I came to apologise.”  
  
“All by yourself? That’s surprising.”  
  
There was a pause.  
  
“Courf convinced me to come.” Said Enjolras, his tone lower. Grantaire resolutely stared out the window, wondering if Enjolras would ever have the common sense to keep some truths to himself.  
  
“Nice to know.” Grantaire mumbled before he could stop himself. He looked down at his hands, opened and closed them a few times. They looked so far away.  
  
It was a known thing that Grantaire had issues with addiction: alcohol, tobacco, coffee, the usuals. And Enjolras’ hostility. That was ancient history, a story for the ages: for years Enjolras and Grantaire had shared the same sphere of friendship, and the routine was cemented within a few weeks of meeting: Grantaire would go to the Musain, sit in the back with Joly and get drunk, listening to Enjolras’ righteous speeches melt into his mind and wishing for that fire to kindle within him. He would stand up, make a big, dramatic bow, and he would proceed to say absolutely anything that would give him what he wanted: Enjolras’, red faced and angry, giving him his full and wrathful attention. Whatever would happen after that moment had become a blur of loud memories and shame. He was tired of it. He didn’t want it to happen again.  
  
“But… I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was the right thing to do.”  
  
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Grantaire turned back and looked up at Enjolras, and watched his blue eyes as they flicked between him and the can of beer that he’d forgotten on the floor. Grantaire felt the judgement seep through Enjolras’ concern. Anger rose from his gut.  
  
“Grantaire-”  
  
“So this really begs the question, what is it you are here to do exactly, at 10 in the fucking morning? Recruit me again? Do you think you finally managed to drive away the great addition I made to your little league university group of activists? And to do what? Toss one off over your own self-righteous speeches and your useless fucking social media campaigns that change fucking nothing? Spare me.” He threw his hands up and turned to pick up some of the junk he’d left on the floor, wanting to keep his hands busy and his eyes away from Enjolras.  
  
“I came to apologize.” Enjolras said after a long stretch of silence, without deigning to respond to those words. Grantaire sighed heavily.  
  
“About what?” He asked, although he knew perfectly well. His jaw tightened, as he tried hard to keep in whatever else was begging to pour out of him.  
  
“About… uh, shouting at you. In a way I shouldn’t have. I think– you know better than anyone that I say untrue things when I get angry, but… I’m sorry, if it made you feel bad, Grantaire. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”  
  
Grantaire began laughing, because there was really no other way he could react, and his thoughts kept growing and pushing against the walls of his brain. The nausea kicked in quickly and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. He swayed, almost losing his balance, and he felt a cool hand between his shoulders, holding him up. Enjolras was too close.  
  
“All okay?” He whispered, and Grantaire couldn’t answer. Instead he stumbled to the bed and dropped heavily onto the bare mattress, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Enjolras. His head felt white hot, sweat pooled in the palms of his hands and on his brow, and whatever Enjolras was saying, he could only hear a droning noise. There was nothing but a single thought in him: “Go away.”  
He wasn’t sure whether he had said that or something else, because the next thing he heard was Enjolras, his brow furrowed in worry, saying “I’ll call Joly,” resolutely, and pulling his phone out of his pocket.  
  
Grantaire felt himself nodding.  
  
When Enjolras was finally gone, Grantaire, still dazed, reached down to the floor where his tobacco lay forgotten, and rolled himself a cigarette with trembling hands, barely managing to light it. As the smoke rolled on his tongue and his thoughts, if not the creature thrashing in his head, finally began to settle, he felt sharp enough to reflect on why he had had such a strong reaction to Enjolras’ presence. He always did, naturally, but the context was usually wildly different. Whenever he was drunk and around Enjolras, there were always other people around as a buffer. It was no surprise that with nothing but beer and nicotine in his system at 10 in the morning that he’d reacted in such a way to Enjolras’ apology. In truth, Enjolras had been the very last of his problems that week, but it is always a single drop that breaks the dam.  
  
The night before, pissed drunk, Grantaire had announced to the Amis that he had been expelled from university on the account of various cases of public drunkenness, and, to his confusion, the news had upset most of his friends. What followed wasn’t even the most heated argument he had ever had with Enjolras, but it easily made the top five, at least in his book. Grantaire couldn’t remember clearly what had been said – or rather, shouted – but he was quite confident that someone had ended up crying.  
  
He smoked through two more cigarettes, praising himself for having had the genius idea to put two socks over the smoke detector in his room, when Joly barged into the room, panting slightly.  
  
“Enjolras called. He said you seemed sick. Is anything the matter?”  
  
Grantaire let out a half-hearted laugh. 

  
“‘Seemed sick’? Jesus Christ… No, I- I was having a panic attack.”  
  
Joly’s features, tight with worry, softened slightly. Grantaire was sure that if he didn’t look like absolute death, Joly would even be smiling. He made his way to Grantaire and sat next to him on the bed, placing a warm hand on his leg.  
  
“What’s going on, ‘Taire?”  
  
“I’ve got depression.” Grantaire said jokingly.  
  
“Come on. You know you have to tell me.” Joly insisted, his voice gentle but firm.  
  
Four months into their friendship, Grantaire and Joly had made a promise to each other that no matter what the situation was, no matter when or how or why, they were going to tell each other exactly what was wrong. Usually it would only apply to Grantaire, as it was him who had the hardest time opening up or asking for help, as well as being by far the most problematic in their friendship. And that was really saying something, given the growing amount of health issues that Joly seemed to happily collect as life went on. Doctors seemed to have a strange fascination with trying to guess exactly what it was that was going wrong in one moment or another. Together, he and Joly made quite the duo.   
  
Joly leaned back against the headboard and patiently waited for a response.  
  
“Isn’t it prohibited to smoke in dorms?” He tried in the meantime.  
  
“I’m not a student anymore. What are they going to do? Kick me out part two, electric boogaloo?”  
  
“They can still give you a fine, Grantaire.” 

“Fuck. You’re right.” And yet, he made no move to put out his cigarette.

The truth was that he had lied to his friends the night before, had provided them with the easy version, the version that made sense and didn’t make him feel like he had had any control over what had happened. And this version was so realistic, nobody would even think to question it.

He could keep on lying to the Amis. But to his best friend? That was much too hard to ask of him. He took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t expelled, Joly.”

“What?” 

“I dropped out.”  
  
Joly paused, and Grantaire knew he was weighing his next words carefully.

“Why?” He tried.  
  
“Well, part of it was true. I got drunk the other day and went to class and wanted to die. But like, I always think that when I go to class, because then I sobered up and I thought to myself: ‘What the fuck am I doing here? What am I trying to achieve?’. And I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do with a Philosophy degree? Lick it? Plus I hate every single fucking person in that goddamn department. It’s like, there’s nothing more masturbatory than a bunch of white cis men writing books about other white cis men’s opinions about shit that nobody ever has the time to think about except for rich white cis men because we’re all too busy trying to not starve or get hate-crimed.” Grantaire ranted.  
  
“But you already knew all that, ‘Taire. I literally remember this conversation happening like fifty times over.” Joly provided reasonably. 

“And because,” Grantaire continued, his voice lower, “because it was crushing me, because people like me shouldn’t be in places like this, because it feels wrong to even take up space here. Because spending any time at all in one of those classes literally makes me want to dematerialise my fucking soul, because I’m so depressed it has literally shrivelled up my brain cells, because someone like Feuilly would kill for this and I don’t even bother showing up to half my classes, and I can’t even pick up a fucking pencil anymore without feeling like I’m going to vomit. Because why not exceed my parents’ expectations and disappoint them even more? Need any more reasons?”  
  


Joly let out a deep breath and looked like he wanted to say something, but stayed quiet, mostly because he was the best friend in the world and loved Grantaire enough to not question him further.  
  
“Also, the uni doesn’t actually expel you if you’re drunk in class. They give you, like, a formal warning or some shit. I tried it, _LOL_.” Grantaire added with a laugh. 

“Anything else?” Joly asked after a while.

“Yeah, I haven’t taken my meds in like, three weeks.”

“Because you’ve been drinking non-stop for three weeks.” Said Joly with finality, his voice giving away the fact that the conversation was worrying him greatly.

“Yes. And no. It makes me feel dead. It’s like being drunk minus the fun.”

“And minus the regret the morning after.”

“I would still rather have that.” Said Grantaire bitterly. 

They remained in comfortable silence for a while, Grantaire smoking and Joly pointedly avoiding the smoke trail and breathing in as little as possible, until he stood up and began clearing up as best he could. Through the smoke, Grantaire watched his friend gather up all of the empty beer cans, scrap paper and rubbish into a garbage bag and wipe every flat surface he could find, and, in order to permit movement, he began moving the smallest bin bags to the far side of the tiny room.

“Feel better?” Joked Grantaire.

“Much,” he paused. Then, “You can live with us.” It was neither a question nor a suggestion, so Grantaire simply grumbled. Joly smiled.  
  
In truth he was grateful for his friends’ willingness to help, but he could not help but ignore the small voice telling him that accepting their help meant also letting them down, occupying their loving space with his misery. Still, he was, as of the week before, not only tragically unemployed, but also a uni dropout, clinically depressed and an alcoholic. All of which would look great on his CV. To be homeless on top of all of that? It was far too close to reality to even laugh about, and he rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. He was so very tired. 

“I would really love to scold you right now, ‘Taire, but I think I’ll leave that to Chetta tomorrow. She’s staying over.”

At that, Grantaire gave Joly a meaningful look.  
  
“Not now.” Joly responded, holding a hand in front of him. He quickly veered the subject away, despite Grantaire having said absolutely nothing.  
  
“Right now, you need a shower and you need to sleep. This place smells like ashtray and sad sex, and I don’t want anything to do with it, so come home with me and try out the couch. Boss and I will help you move out of here tomorrow.”

Underneath lay a firmness Grantaire couldn’t help but love, so he agreed and followed Joly back to his apartment, and ended up falling asleep on his friends’ queen-sized bed instead, hugging Bossuet’s giant Chansey plushie.  
  


* * *

  
The next day found Grantaire awake at around 8 a.m., which, for him, was extremely unusual, craving a drink. Trying desperately to ignore the itch in his hands, with great effort, he pushed himself off the large bed and padded toward the kitchen.

He came to regret this choice when he saw who was waiting for him, eyebrows raised as she leaned against the counter, alone.

“Musichetta.” Grantaire groaned.

“Grantaire.” She said pointedly.

“Can we do this another time?”

“We are doing this right now.” She spoke firmly, crossing her arms and looking only slightly terrifying.

“I imagine Joly already told you all of the juicy gossip.”

“He most certainly did.” She began, “You know, I’m not even going to worry about why, exactly, you decided to drop out of uni, goddamnit, R, but why on earth would you lie to us? That head of yours is hard enough to comprehend as it is, imagine if you just started lying your way out of every little inconvenience? We’re your friends, R. We’re here for a reason.”

“Are you done?”

“No. You have to stop drinking, and you have to start taking your meds again.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can’t stop drinking?”

“No. I mean yes. Fuck, I meant my meds. I can’t start taking them again, they’re not working.”

“Then ask the doctor to give you something else,” suggested Musichetta reasonably.

“I will. But that means I have to stop drinking, like, seriously, and I just- I don’t know what to do,” his voice faltered.

“So accept our help. What’s the matter with you? We’ve offered so many times.” Musichetta said, and her voice was gentler now. Grantaire desperately wished he could accept help just like that, even though he felt like there were a million reasons he could not. The future felt like a plunge in the dark, and if he thought about facing that without being able to drink, so he wouldn’t have to look down, or ever think about what lay ahead, it was hard to keep his balance, or keep from throwing up. 

“I don’t know how to, Chetta, and I’ve always done this alone.” Grantaire said weakly.

“And how’s that been going so far?”

“I fucking hate you.” Responded Grantaire, mostly for a lack of comebacks.

“Sure you do,” she said, and when Grantaire said nothing, she took a step forward, and placed her hands on either shoulder, as if to shake him.

“Let us help you. Please.”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Grantaire with a tired sigh, already knowing the answer.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” She asked, and though she was smiling, Grantaire knew just how serious she was.

Silence rung out between them until the moment passed. Then, Musichetta let go of his shoulders and turned away. When she spun back around, she was holding a mug of dark coffee, which she pushed into his hands.  
  
“I’m going to work,” she said, and passed him, stopping to place a kiss on his cheek before pausing by the door.  
  
“Oh, and Grantaire? Your phone pinged.” The door closed behind her. 

After that Grantaire drank his coffee in silence, deciding to ignore his phone— it was probably Bahorel sending him old Vine compilations— and resolutely not looking at the cupboard where Bossuet kept their mother’s limoncello. Finally, when the clothes in which he’d slept began feeling too uncomfortable, he walked across the living room to reach the bathroom and have a long awaited shower. On the couch slept Joly and Bossuet, tangled in a muddle of limbs, and Grantaire, imagining that Musichetta must have slept on the floor, felt a twinge of guilt for having occupied the bed.

Disappointingly the shower only made him feel a little better, and ‘a little’ was certainly not what he needed in that moment, but at least by the time he was out the two lovebirds had woken up and were having— sharing— breakfast, Bossuet’s laughter filling the air as Joly had apparently been laughing so hard he’d snorted cereal out of his nose.

“You two are disgusting,” said Grantaire, though he couldn’t help but smile.  
  
“Good morning, sexy,” said Bossuet while Joly was still coughing out bits of cereal.

Grantaire looked down at his bare chest, crossed by wide keloid scars, droplets of water following their trajectory and trailing down to his hips, dampening the jeans he had already put back on. He hadn’t been to the gym in weeks, and his only dance partner was going through exams and couldn’t practice with him. He’d usually say he felt fine about his body, but whenever he would stop paying attention to it, whenever his hips would gather fat and he’d stop lifting, feelings of inadequacy would snake their way into his brain and the mirror would become an exercise in avoidance. Despite himself, he looked back up and raised one eyebrow.  
  
“Hey, R, don’t you fucking dare. You’re hot as fuck.” said Joly.

“I know I am.” Said Grantaire, smiling and shooing away the nagging insecurity pushing its way through his weak defences.  
  
“While you were in the shower your phone pinged twice.” Bossuet informed him, trying their best to stop Joly from tickling them.

Grantaire groaned and reached for his phone as it sat, face down, on the farthest corner of the counter. He flipped it round, turned the display on and almost choked:

~ **3 messages from Enjolras**

* * *

Grantaire unlocked his phone so fast he could feel his thumb cramp.

– **From Enjolras, 6:55 a.m.** Just checking in. Is everything okay?

– **From Enjolras, 8:35 a.m.** Rude of me not to say good morning. Sorry.

– **From Enjolras, 8:37 a.m.** Good morning.

What some people would call ‘butterflies’ all but thrashed in his stomach, and his throat felt like it had been just turned inside out like a sock. Again, he desperately wished for a drink. Instead he groaned unceremoniously and crossed the room to throw himself down on the unmade couch just for effect.

“What?” Bossuet asked, running after him and hitting their shin against the small glass table in front of the couch.

“Ouch, fuck!”

“Boss, are you okay?” Asked Joly, worry filling his features as he forced his partner to sit down and leaned down to examine their leg.

“Babe, I’m fine!” Tried Bossuet, all the while grimacing in pain.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Aw, fuck, really?”

“Stay still, I’ll get first aid kit,” and Joly, wearing the concerned and focused face he usually wore when an injury occurred (commonly called Joly’s doctor face, a term coined by Bahorel the day he broke his knuckle after punching a lamppost, drunk out of his wits), went straight for the bathroom.

“Dude, you have got to tell me what just happened, because I’m now injured because of it,” said Bossuet, in an impressively casual tone, given the blood trailing down their leg and onto their white socks.

“When are you not injured?” Joked Grantaire, and that earned him a look.

“Uh, woah, shins don’t usually bleed that much.” He looked down at his friend’s leg, the blood pearly black against their dark brown skin.  
  
“How many shins have you seen bleed?” Bossuet asked.  
  
“I’ve happened to see a few in my time.”

Bossuet shrugged. “I’m haemophilic.” They said casually.

“You are?”

“It’s mild. That’s why my nose sometimes bleeds non-stop.” Bossuet said, seeming unbothered. 

“How did I not know this?”

“You’re asking me.”

Bossuet and Grantaire were sat chuckling when Joly returned with his aid kit and plastic gloves on, and he began cleaning the wound.  
  
“Not gonna lie, this is kinda hot.” Bossuet commented, and Grantaire glimpsed the flash of a smile on Joly’s face. Grantaire felt like interjecting something about the two being disgusting, but he decided to let them have it. If he were in a relationship he would be a lot worse.  
  
As Joly’s medical readiness seems to make the whole situation calmer, too soon, Bossuet turned back, their eyebrow lifted, and said, “You were saying?”

Grantaire sighed deeply. “Enjolras.” He said simply, and read the texts out loud.

When he finished he was staring at his phone again, wondering what on earth he was going to respond to that, so he missed the meaningful look that Joly and Bossuet exchanged, the latter trying to hold back a shameless ‘aww’ for Grantaire’s sake.

“Tragic.” Said Joly sarcastically, which earned him a kick on Grantaire’s part.

“It _is_ tragic. He barely even looks at me usually, and now he’s sending me good morning texts? This is fucking torture, how can he not know that.” Grantaire whined, and Bossuet began rubbing circles in the small of his back. A clumsy attempt at comfort, but Grantaire appreciated the effort.

“Or maybe he _knows_ , and _wants_ to torture me!”

“‘Taire, you could just try and… you know… answer.”

“Oh, yeah! Great idea, Joly! Really. Amazing plan. And here I sat, thinking about throwing my phone into the Seine,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you did actually think about that.” said Bossuet, clearly not taking this seriously enough.

Grantaire ignored Bossuet’s comment.

“What the hell am I supposed to say to him?”

“You could start with ‘good morning.’” Offered Joly.  
  
“Except it’s clearly not a good morning.” Grumbled Grantaire.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” and Joly was gone again.

“Thanks, mum!” called Grantaire after him.

“Just make a joke or something, you have charm. You can do that.” Said Bossuet optimistically.

“Try a pick-up line or something!” Came Joly’s voice from the kitchen.

“You guys are terrible at giving advice.” Grantaire complained, putting his head in his hands.

They carried on like that, proposing possible pick-up lines he could use on Enjolras, as they got progressively more and more ridiculous. When Grantaire actually pulled out his phone again to answer, the display flashed 10:21 a.m., and he jumped up.

“Fuck. I need to clear out my dorm by today.”

“We’ll help,” said Joly readily, and in less than 10 minutes, they were out of the apartment. Just before walking out the door, Grantaire settled on a reply and pressed ‘send.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm incapable of not making excuses for my writing, please know that I started writing this fic in 2016 and this is an ATTEMPT of a rework of it. They are technically in Paris, but any reference to how uni works is taken vaguely from my experience in the UK.  
> I am also taking a lot of this from personal experience and that of people close to me, but if you think something is not well depicted, especially in terms of mental illness, disability and addiction, please do tell me. And comments in general are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Just so we're all clear here, yes, Grantaire is indeed a trans man. Bossuet uses he/they pronouns. I think Prouvaire uses any pronouns.
> 
> I don't want to bait anyone into reading this, so I'm going to say it: this is not a slowburn exR. The romance between these two characters is not the focus of the story. This is my way of expressing love for these characters, and also letting them go.
> 
> Finally, I am absolutely swamped by online education, and won't be posting regularly. But I hope to have this complete by the end of this terrible, terrible year.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras whines and Courfeyrac click-clacks around in his boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of an older version of chapter 2, with a tiny added scene. Chapter 3 coming soon.

About fourty minutes on foot away, in the 16th arrondissement, Enjolras sat in his flat, sighing heavily and staring at his phone, wondering for the millionth time why he had decided to send those texts in the first place, until a notification rang out, startling him. 

  * **From Grantaire, 10:32 a.m.** good morning o Averter of Evil :) 



Enjolras groaned and threw his phone on the other side of the couch.    
  
“This was useless.” He said loudly, wanting Combeferre to hear him from the kitchen, where he was presumably making coffee, Enjolras hoped for both of them.    
  
“What was?” Combeferre asked.    
  
“Apologising to Grantaire. It was useless.”    
  
When no response came, Enjolras groaned again and pushed himself up. In the kitchen Combeferre was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, staring him down as he entered.    
  
“Why would you say that?” He could tell Combeferre was very unimpressed.   
  
“Because, he just laughed and I think he was drunk or something, and–” he sighed heavily, “I just don’t get it.”    
  
Combeferre’s frown deepened.    
  
“Enjolras. Grantaire just got expelled from uni for being drunk in class, from what I was able to gather over all the shouting the other day. I’m not going to judge him for it because it’s clear he’s going through a lot right now. But you were really out of line. Like, completely out of line. In a way that is upsetting to even think about, you do realise that, don’t you?”    
  
Enjolras broke eye contact with Combeferre and dropped his face in his hands. He didn’t want to think about the other night, and had avoided doing so in any way possible over the past day and a half. Guilt would curdle in his stomach and make him feel sick every time he thought about it, and he had to physically shake his head to chase away the ugly thoughts running through his mind. 

When Grantaire, already on his third drink, had announced to the group that he had been expelled as if he were announcing he had won an award, Enjolras had gone completely still. While Grantaire had laughed and bowed gracefully in the face of his friends’ negative reactions, Enjolras had just watched, getting more and more angry at Grantaire’s impropriety. He hadn’t thought that this might be, perhaps, Grantaire’s way to cope with whatever was happening. He hadn’t thought that there might have been something more behind the mask of sarcasm and derision, that Enjolras perhaps didn’t know about. He hadn’t thought at all. All he could see was his own anger at Grantaire’s behaviour. And he hadn’t hesitated to let it be known. Aggressively.    
  
“Yes, ‘Ferre. I remember, unfortunately.”   
  
“In fact, I think you should apologise to the rest of the group too.”    
  
Enjolras lifted his head to give Combeferre a look. Combeferre stared right back at him, before turning to pour the steaming coffee into a mug.    
  
“What did you tell Grantaire, exactly?”    
  
Enjolras reluctantly relayed the apology to his friend. Combeferre stopped pouring the coffee into a second mug.    
  
“Christ, Enjolras.”   
  
“What?”    
  
“That’s a shit apology.” Combeferre said, handing Enjolras his coffee, no milk. Enjolras pushed himself off the counter to get his oat milk out of the fridge.    
  
“What do you mean?” The familiar feeling of frustration started seeping into his throat. 

“Okay, like. The whole point of a genuine apology is recognising that you did something wrong, or rather, recognising  _ what _ you did wrong, and respecting that someone was hurt by your actions. It’s not about saying sorry. It’s about understanding the ways in which you hurt someone and internalising ways in which you can improve, right?”   
  
Enjolras stood listening intently.    
  
“But what you did was simply justify yourself, and you told Grantaire that it’s his own fault for getting hurt by what you did.”    
  
“I didn’t tell him it was his fault-” Enjolras began.   
  
“But you implied it. And ‘sorry I raised my voice’? What in the hell was that about? I think the problem was less that you were shouting, and more what you were shouting. Do I really have to remind you of the fact that you told Grantaire that the only thing he was useful for was ruining his own life?”    
  
Enjolras pressed his palms to his eyes as hard as he could, and let the hot waves of guilt wash over him until he could breathe again. He hated it when his friend was right, and all he felt like doing to chase away the sharp coils of shame was argue back until he felt in control of the conversation again. But he was starting to understand that this impulse has always got him into undesirable situations, and the more he indulged it the more it got out of hand.    
  
“I hate myself for doing that.”    
  
“It’s not the first time you’ve done something like that.” Combeferre pointed out.    
  
“Okay! Enough with the tough love! I get it. I’m mean to people and I need to stop it.” Enjolras blurted out, and Combeferre let out a small laugh, and smiled in a way he knew to be comforting.    
  
“Courfeyrac is on his way,” he told Enjolras after a few minutes of silence in which Enjolras had just been staring into his coffee and trying to remember everything he’d said on Wednesday night to Grantaire. When he tried to think about what Grantaire had shouted back, he could hardly remember any of it. What he could remember was Eponine getting up, shouting at him while angry crying and being guided away by Feuilly and Cosette. He did think he should probably apologise to Eponine as well, but the prospect was making dread drop to the bottom of his stomach like a rock. He walked back into the living room and dropped like a deadweight onto the couch, sprawled like a cat, and pulled his laptop towards him. He then proceeded to spend the following half-hour in that position, ignoring his neck getting progressively more stiff as he mindlessly scrolled his Twitter feed. Finally, Courfeyrac arrived.    
  
“Hello, m’ loves.” He said, sauntering in through the door, his boots clicking soundly as he made his way into the living room.    
  
“Hey Courf.” Said Combeferre from the living room table where he was sitting reading a ridiculously large book.    
  
“Hello babe, whatcha reading?” Courfeyrac asked as he walked over to place a kiss on Combeferre’s head.    
  
“Count of Monte Cristo.”    
  
“Sounds thrilling, can I have some coffee?” He asked, placing his tote bag on the table and crossing the living room.    
  
“Sure, you’ll have to make some more.”    
  
Courfeyrac looked down apprehensively at Enjolras before continuing to the kitchen.    
  
“Hello, Courf.” He said miserably.    
  
“How are you feeling, love?” Courfeyrac said from the kitchen.    
  
“Bad.”   
  
“Well, that’s to be expected, honey. After Wednesday night.”    
  
“Rub it in, won’t you.” Said Enjolras grumpily, turning to see Courfeyrac lean against the doorframe, his arms crossed, looking at him with almost the exact same unimpressed expression Combeferre had worn earlier.   
  
“I just… I don’t know. I just feel so  _ angry  _ at Grantaire all the time, especially if he’s been drinking, and I don’t know why he’s so antagonistic with me-”    
  
“He’s not that antagonistic, Enjolras. Bahorel says stuff that comes across a lot worse a lot of the time and you never go off on him, do you?” Courfeyrac didn’t often lecture Enjolras when similar things happened amongst their friend group, but it was now clear even to Enjolras that his friend was very bothered by what transpired after the last ABC meeting.   
  
“And look, Enjolras. I’m not trying to say that R doesn’t sometimes say shit just to get you going, but I think at this point it’s safe to say it’s as much your fault as it is his. And you were  _ really _ nasty this last time.”    
  
Enjolras listened intently, with a frown etched deep into his forehead. In truth he still couldn’t manage to grasp his friends’ understanding of his and Grantaire’s relationship, because he always felt so lost whenever he was confronted with him. Grantaire, to him, always seemed so angry, and he couldn’t seem to help himself feeling the same. Any notion of why it happened was beyond him. He attempted weakly to defend himself.    
  
“Look, I just try to match his energy…”    
  
“Have you ever tried not doing that?” Combeferre offered, his attention veered away from his tome and onto his friends’ conversation.    
  
“But that’s not fair! Grantaire gets to act like I’m his worst enemy and I should just take it?”

Courfeyrac let out a laugh, sounding astonished rather than amused.    
  
“Enjolras, you need to get some fucking therapy.”   
  
“What’s that supposed to mean!” Said Enjolras, raising his voice and throwing his hands in the air.    
  
“This whole ‘he acts like I’m his worst enemy’ thing you’ve created in your head? Totally not what’s going on.” He seemed to be getting angrier at the turn of the conversation.    
  
“Christ, Courf, I don’t understand wh-”   
  
“Hey. Look. You said yourself you don’t understand what’s going on, right?”   
  
Enjorlas paused to think, not wanting to fight with the only two people willing to talk to him right now.    
  
“Yes, I said that...”   
  
“You should try figuring it out for yourself. With therapy. You know. Introspection.” Courfeyrac said, before turning to take the coffee off the hob.    
  
Enjolras remained speechless, looking at Courfeyrac’s back. He turned around to look at Combeferre, who was back to reading his book.    
  
“It’s not like you don’t have the money.” He said, not looking up.    
  
Enjolras stayed silent. Foolishly, he half-wished he could counter that with something. 

* * *

  
The following week Enjolras found himself standing in front of Café Musain, where the ABC Student Society would usually meet in the backroom for its open committee meetings. He was dreading walking in and facing his friends.    
He entered the café and saw Bahorel leaning against the bar with a beer in one hand and his chin held in the other, his smile exuding a charm and confidence Enjolras had always felt estranged from. He was speaking to Prouvaire, who worked behind the bar and was blushing furiously at the obvious attention. Enjolras only noticed the subtleties because he knew where to look, as Courfeyrac had often filled him in on the inner workings of the larger group that Enjolras was usually too busy or clueless to pick up on. 

Prouvaire met his eye as he entered and waved with a gentle smile. Enjolras was glad for it, as he knew very well that Prouvaire didn’t usually take to heart many of the group dynamics, and kept a friendly demeanor with everyone.    
Bahorel turned to look, and though his expression was slightly more guarded, he nodded at Enjolras.    
  
Enjolras nervously beelined for the entrance to the backroom. It was a rectangular room with a few tables lined in front of a small wooden stage toward the right side. Toward the left side it had a cluster of couches and chairs currently occupied by Joly, Bossuet, Cosette, Eponine and Grantaire, Enjolras noticed with a jolt, the latter with his back turned away from him, and talking rapidly about something to Bossuet.    
  
Eponine looked up to fix Enjolras with hostile glare and he had the sudden urge to look away in shame, knowing very well how much she disliked him, especially after the week before. He nodded and quickly moved to one of the front tables, dropping his bag on it with a louder _ thunk  _ than he had intended. He looked up to see everyone turn to him. He met Grantaire’s black eyes and swallowed.    
  
“Hi.” He said weakly. Eponine was throwing daggers at him with her stare and Enjolras wanted very much to dig a hole in the ground and lie in it until everything was over and until Grantaire stopped looking at him like a deer caught in headlights.   
  
Bossuet, being the sweetheart that he was, smiled widely.   
  
“Hey Enjolras! What’s our order of business today?”   
  
“Oh! Uh-” Enjolras, caught off guard, shuffled through the garbage dump that was his bag and pulled out a copy of the agenda.   
  
“W-We have to talk about fundraising for the soc, organise the Pride viewing and, well, the Arms Divestment protest. And. Tomorrow we’re doing the bake sale. For, uh, the Rose Project.” He took a breath and looked up again, the silence ringing in his ears furiously.    
  
“Fuck, I forgot about the bake sale,” said Grantaire, looking at somewhere beyond Enjolras’ shoulder.   
  
“You could make those blueberry oatcakes you made the other day,” offered Joly.    
  
Grantaire nodded absentmindedly, something passing over his face as he continued to stare in Enjolras’ general direction. Enjorlas’ face warmed from the embarrassment. Lucky for him, right in that moment Courfeyrac entered the room with a hand flourish and Marius in tow.   
  
“Hello, ladies! I know you’ve all missed me.”    
  
The rest of the regulars of most of the society meetings trickled in after that, and noise and people were placed between Grantaire and Enjolras, much to his relief. Courfeyrac took a seat by Enjolras’ chosen spot and grabbed his agenda, scribbling something on the top of the page.    
  
When Enjolras picked it up and stepped onto the stage to start the meeting, it read:   
  


> **ABC Agenda 06/03** **  
>  **   
>  _ \- apologise to every1 _ _   
>  _ **_  
>  _ ** **1\. Fundraising ideas** **  
>  ** **2\. Pride screening: date and time, room booking, stream** **  
>  ** **3\. Arms Div. protest at uni** **  
>  ** **4\. Rose project bake sale: shifts, who’s bringing what (vegan/glut free options?)**

  
**  
** Enjolras sighed. **  
**   
“Before we start the meeting,” the chatter in the room immediately quieted down at the ring of his stage voice (as Courfeyrac called it).   
  
“I would like to apologise for my behaviour. Last week. It was… uh– inappropriate.” He heard someone scoff, and although he was staring down at his hands, he knew it was Eponine. He was vaguely aware of the door of the room opening and closing. When he looked up Grantaire was gone.    
  
The next day Enjolras texted his mother.    
  
\-  **Enjolras, 3:14 p.m.** : I need therapy    
  
A minute later his phone was ringing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plagued by a writer's block I have absolutely no patience for, i'm back to hacking at this fic. *insert comedic violence*.  
> I'm in a huge creative slump, and i've accepted I'll never be happy with this, so comments and kudos are appreciated now more than ever!! 
> 
> thank you for reading


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire hangs out. Joly talks about motorcycles, polyamory and his feelings. Enjolras starts to figure things out.

As Spring progressed into its warmer months and Summer gently approached with its hazy heat, Grantaire slowly began to pick himself up and breathe again, arranging to move in with Feuilly at the beginning of June.    
He managed to find a decent job in the warehouse of a large hardware store at a cycleable distance from where he was staying at the moment in Joly and Bossuet’s one bedroom flat. By the time a sunny day at the beginning of May rolled around, he opened the first page of his notebook to find a messy scribbled calendar, and ticked off another day. He was almost two months sober.    
  
Though the thought of reaching that milestone filled him with pride, the going was tough and there had been days in which it was anything he could do to stop himself from caving and drinking again. His friends had accompanied him through it, to the point of emptying the house of alcohol and not drinking around him when they happened to go out, but it didn’t help as much as it filled him with guilt and pressure about changing his friend’s behaviours so drastically. Feuilly didn’t drink, so he was happy to move in with him and not feel like he was always bringing down the party.    
  
His new normal was AA meetings, instead of suffering through ABC meetings, although he missed the ease with which he used to get progressively drunk in the back of the room and watch Enjolras move and gesticulate, blonde and bright, through the haze of drunkenness. Grantaire chased the thought in circles, guilt tugging at his stomach as he sifted through memories of his fights with Enjolras in that warm backroom over the years, before shaking it off and getting ready to go out.    
  
Courfeyrac, Prouvaire and Marius had organised a gettogether at their place. Grantaire was excited to see his friends all together again, being this a rarer occurrence now that he would purposefully skip society meetings, but, he thought, all he was going to have to do was to get through a lot of cans of coke and check himself in front of Enjolras. Everyone knew about his new situation, and he was glad he was not going to have to explain himself, seeing as Bossuet and Joly had already done most of the explaining for him.   
  
Enjolras was going to be an interesting factor. He couldn’t help but think how strangely Enjolras had been acting around him lately. They had barely talked, and their confrontations were something he knew he should very well just leave in the past, but when Enjolras thought Grantaire didn’t notice, he would fix him with a stare that seemed almost like Enjolras was trying to study him. Coming from a man who was so clueless and had paid little to no attention to him unless he was antagonising him or shouting in his face, Grantaire didn’t quite know how he should be feeling about it yet. 

When he arrived at the door with a ceasar salad in his hand he could already hear laughter, muffled slightly by the door. He knocked. Prouvaire opened the door and gasped at the food, taking it from Grantaire and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Welcome, my love.” 

With a very small hint of envy, Grantaire looked around Marius, Courfeyrac and Prouvaire’s flat, with its enormous windows and the feeling of finding yourself in a greenhouse for the sheer amount of plants Prouvaire had carefully arranged in the bright living room. His friends were strewn around the large room and a tilting chorus of ‘hello’s welcomed him in. 

Bahorel and Cosette were sitting near the TV, seemingly playing Mario Kart and throwing insults at each other, as Bossuet watched, leaning back into Musichetta’s lap on the couch. Marius was frowning at his phone, and Courfeyrac was draped over the back of the couch and poking his friend. The afternoon light filtering through the plants washed his friends in golden light. 

He headed to the kitchen with Prouvaire to scavenge for some snacks and a can of coke to keep his hands busy. The kitchen table was laden with food in different containers, some labeled with ingredients, others vicariously plain. 

Enjolras and Feuilly were sitting at the corner of the table, talking.

“-it’s really something I struggle with.” Enjolras finished as Grantaire walked in.

“Aye, honestly I think everyone does to a certain degree.” Feuilly trailed off and looked up toward Grantaire. 

“Hey ‘Taire” He said smiling, his low and gentle voice rumbling. 

Grantaire sneaked a look at Enjolras, nodding once in greeting. Enjolras mirrored him. 

“Prouvaire, who made the quiche? It's fucking delicious.” Feuilly smoothly interrupted the moment of silence the second before it got uncomfortable. 

“That was Cosette’s dad, I think. He also made that vegan frittata there. He's always piling her with food.”   
  
Grantaire grabbed a coke and some bread and fled from the kitchen to find Joly leaning against the wall in the back of the room, watching the back of Musichetta’s dark head of hair with a strange expression on his face.    
  
“You good?” Grantaire asked.    
  
“No.” Joly replied simply.    
  
“Wanna step out and talk about it?”   
  
“Not really.”    
  
“Maybe we should anyway.” Grantaire said, knowing too well how often Joly preferred avoiding difficult conversations about his own feelings.   
  
“Yeah.” Said Joly resignedly, following Grantaire toward the door.    
  
“We’re going for a smoke.” Grantaire shouted back when Courfeyrac asked why they were leaving. Everyone knew Joly didn’t smoke, but they didn’t mention it.    
  
“So,” Grantaire lit a cigarette. 

“I feel like I’m such a horrible person right now.” Joly said, dropping his face in his hands.    
  
“Why?” Grantaire prompted.   
  
“I feel like everything is getting out of control. I don’t know. I feel like I want out, but breaking up with Bossuet is just… not something I’d ever pictured myself doing.”   
  
“Fuck, man. You want to break up with him?”   
  
“I don’t  _ want _ to.” Joly said, pain stark on his face.    
  
“Is it something to do with Musichetta?”   
  
Joly sighed heavily, as if a confession had just been pulled out of him.   
  
“Yes. I’m jealous, I get angry, I feel left out. And when I rationalise my feelings, it’s fine, but I’m just starting to lash out in weird ways and I just feel like it would be best to remove myself from the situation.”   
  
“Joly, have you talked to Boss about this?” Grantaire asked.   
  
“Sort of? I don’t think they really know how bad it is for me. I think they just assume I’m working through my issues with jealousy like I told them I would. When Bossuet started dating Chetta like, we talked about it so fucking much, we had like a conversation a day about it. It was good, but exhausting. And I thought that enough communication was gonna make it work. But- I don’t know ‘Taire. I feel like I’m going to ruin everything. And Chetta… She’s a whole other thing that I need to unpack.” Joly said.

Grantaire felt a twinge of worry at Joly’s suggestion to pull himself out of his relationship with Bossuet, and he knew that his best friend would easily do almost anything to avoid disappointing people, especially Bossuet. Even if this could mean breaking up with them. He would be sad if Joly ultimately figured out that Musichetta didn’t fit in the picture when it came to his relationship with Bossuet, for no other reason than he had grown to care for Musichetta greatly over the months she had spent around them. She had fit into their lives slowly and gently, and later on, she’d knitted herself gracefully in their patchwork friend group as if there had always been a place for her. Of course his loyalty lay with his best friend, so Grantaire opened his arms. 

“I’m all ears. Lay it on me.”   
  
“I don’t even know where to start.” Joly said, and Grantaire just looked at him expectantly, taking a pull from his cigarette.    
  
“The worst thing about all of this is that she fits so fucking well in the group. She gets on with Enjolras for fuck’s sake, like, who does that? Who gets on with Enjolras after knowing him for three months, barely?”    
  
“That’s rude. Enjolras gets on with most people.”   
  
“Stop defending him ‘Taire. He’s been horrible to you.”   
  
“Why? I think he’s fine. I’ve decided I’m a forgiving type, Joly, I have to be. Look at how many times people have forgiven me for my shit? Enjolras’ only fault is being quick to anger, and most of the time, with me, it’s completely justified. Well, was.”   
  
“Your thing for him is never going to go away, is it?” Joly said, frowning, and Grantaire just wished he would smile, make it a joke.    
  
“We were talking about Musichetta. Don’t come for me.”   
  
“Yeah. Well, on paper, she’s literally perfect. She gets on with all my friends, she’s organised and organises Bossuet’s stuff for them-”   
  
“Priorities.” Interjected Grantaire.   
  
“Yes. Priorities. She cares about Bossuet so much, she’s cool and studies neuroscience, and, I found out, she has a vet degree– Did you know she did vet school? Like, why is she doing neuroscience? What’s her plan?– and she has a fucking motorcycle, dude.” And Joly raised his arm to point toward a sleek black motorcycle with a green streak across its side, parked on the pavement near the flat.   
  
“That is very cool.” Commented Grantaire.    
  
“It fucking is.  _ Ugh. _ ” Joly turned and dropped his forehead onto his friend’s shoulder, and Grantaire stamped out the cigarette and began stroking Joly’s jet black hair.    
  
“Well? What’s the problem then?”   
  
“I feel like she’s so much better than me in everything. Of course Bossuet wants to date her. Who wouldn’t?”   
  
Grantaire chuckled.    
  
“Do  _ you _ want to date her?” He joked.   
  
Joly paused.   
  
“What?”   
  
Grantaire moved back to fix Joly with a perplexed look.    
  
“Do you want to date her, Joly?” Grantaire tried again, seriously this time.    
  
Joly frowned but stayed silent.    
  
“Joly, just because you and Bossuet decided at the beginning of this that it would be an open relationship, doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind. Now my advice initially was to talk to Bossuet and tell them you’re not poly and it’s not going to work out… But to me it looks like that’s not really the problem.”   
  
Joly simply stared at him.   
  
“I hadn’t thought about that.” He said, and Grantaire could see the wheels in his head moving.    
  
“I can see that. Maybe you like Chetta? Like, not in a she’s-my-partner’s-girlfriend-and-she’s-lovely way but in a she’s-my-partner’s-girlfriend-and-i-want-to-date-her-too way?” Grantaire asked him, placing what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Joly’s shoulder.   
  
“I- I don’t know. I need to think about it.” Joly dropped his eyes to his feet. 

“Take your time, dude. Polyamory isn’t for everyone, and you might figure out it’s just, not a thing you can do for yourself or Bossuet. And that’s a difficult thing to admit, but Boss loves you very much. They’ll listen, they’ll support you. You both went into it knowing this might be a possibility.” Grantaire took Joly’s other shoulder and waited for his friend to look up before continuing. “But you might find out that this thing you all have, you, Boss and Musichetta might actually be something? I mean think about it. You three regularly spend time together, you have routine going. You and Chetta adore each other. It almost makes sense.” Grantaire smiled.    
  
“I would have to talk to them. Boss first and- But-” Joly finally droped forward into Grantaire’s chest, his small and thin figure against Grantaire’s large frame. Grantaire wrapped him in a bear hug.    
  
“I don’t even know if I _ want  _ that.” Joly said, the words muffled by his shirt.    
  
“I know, Joly. You’ll figure it out. I’ll be here every step of the way.” Grantaire reassured him, his hand moving up to stroke Joly’s hair again.    
  
“Thank you.” Joly replied weakly. They stayed like that in silence, the warm sun of a late afternoon slowly dropping behind the tall Parisian buildings stretched out in front of them. Grantaire breathed over the top of his friend’s head, letting warmth simmer in his chest and feeling a gentle sense of pride glow in his heart.    
  
“Joly?” Whispered Grantaire after a while.   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I’m almost two months sober.” Grantaire allowed his eyes to dampen. Joly only hugged him tighter. 

* * *

  
  
  
The rest of the get-together– which soon became a party– continued quite smoothly, but Grantaire found that he wanted to leave sooner than he would in the past. It was still a shock to him to realise how much drinking changed people’s behaviour and how much it changed one’s own perception of it. He watched his friends, none of them drunk but most of them on their steady way to tipsy, and saw how their movements got more fluid, their faces more flushed and their laughter increasingly louder. He suddenly felt so far away from all of them, sitting in a reading chair in the back of the room with his third can of coke and a slow approaching headache. He made a mental note to talk about the feeling of dread he was feeling in his next AA meeting, and got up to hide in the kitchen.   
  
Once again he found Enjolras and Feuilly sitting huddled in the corner of the kitchen, talking seriously. When they noticed Grantaire Enjolras suddenly jumped as if to get up from the chair but remained seated and Grantaire felt like he just walked in on a conversation about him. He didn’t indulge the foolish thought further, instead smiling awkwardly and turned, about to walk right back out of the door when Feuilly stood up, patting Enjolras on the shoulder and moving toward Grantaire.   
  
“Your salad was really good, Grantaire. Had basically half of it.” Feuilly said, his voice is bassy in a way Grantaire had always wanted his own voice to be. Though he liked how his voice sounded now, the tiniest hint of envy still lingered. Feuilly moved to the side to exit the kitchen, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone in the kitchen. Grantaire cleared his throat. 

“So, uh… Haven’t seen you in a while.” Enjolras began awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.   
  
“Yeah. I’ve been busy. With AA meetings and work and– stuff.” Grantaire bit his lip. He knew he always talked about AA lately, perhaps too much for his friends to bear, but he also couldn’t bring himself to care.    
  
“Um. Yeah, I know. Feuilly was… telling me. I guess.”   
  
Grantaire couldn’t help but smile a little at that. It was strange to see Enjolras so out of his depth.   
  
“Grantaire, I-” Enjolras interrupted himself to take a sip from his drink, and looked up at Grantaire. “I wanted to tell you how glad I am for you and your… journey. Your knowledge and your contributions and– well, your presence, are very valuable to us. And to me. I think you should know that not because I’m trying to guilt you into anything like coming back to the ABC-” Enjolras paused to chuckle at himself, “but because I’ve never told you. And I think you should know.”   
  
Grantaire was speechless for a long moment. Enjolras was right, Grantaire realised.    
  
“Wow, Enjolras. That’s– very kind of you.”   
  
Enjolras’ eyes met Grantaire’s for the first time, and Grantaire held the gaze until Enjolras looked away again. Enjolras swallowed.   
  
“I actually wanted to, uh, tell you that I’m going to therapy.” He said awkwardly.    
  
“Wow, Enjolras.” Grantaire said, a genuine grin on his face.    
  
Enjolras looked back, shily.    
  
“Yeah. It’s… It’s really helping me. Figure stuff out.” Enjolras continued. “I think I might be autistic.”    
  
Grantaire, taken by surprise by Enjolras’ earnestness, smiled softly.    
Enjolras looked up to Grantaire, as if trying to gage his reaction, and, trying to seem encouraging, Grantaire moved to sit in the chair Feuilly had been occupying.    
  
“I’m going to try getting a diagnosis, but… even just knowing has helped a lot.”    
  
“I’m so happy for you.” Grantaire said, meaning it.   
  
“Yeah. Me too. It definitely explains a lot, I guess.” Enjolras chuckled.    
  
They stayed in comfortable silence for a while. Then Grantaire spoke.    
  
“Seems like this is our year, Enj.”    
  
Enjolras looked up, his eyes so bright in the low yellow light of the kitchen. Laughter and jests from the living room floated in, filling Grantaire’s ears and his heart. Across from him, their knees barely touching, Enjolras lips curled into a smile.   
  
“Seems like it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an exam tomorrow but I really really wanted to post this chapter (also sorry for the very short chapters. this is the first longfic i've ever written so im super out of my comfort zone lol)
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated, as always. Thanks for reading!


End file.
